


Survival of the Fittest

by Serb



Category: Suicide Squad (2016), Suicide Squad (Comics)
Genre: Dark, Drama, F/M, Mother-Son Relationship, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 01:12:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8036449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serb/pseuds/Serb
Summary: The latest mission had gone horribly awry, and the Squad is frustrated at their member George "Digger" Harkness, whose unusual bout of carelessness had nearly gotten them killed. Little do they know that memories of his past have resurfaced to plague his mind.





	Survival of the Fittest

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: Each I don’t expect that I’d write fanfiction again, I do it. I enjoyed the movie, Captain Boomerang is slowly becoming one of my favourite DC characters (along with the Scarecrow), although my favourite versions of him were in the animated series (like in JLU, where he had a wonderfully soothing Australian accent) and Assault on Arkham (where he first got my attention, I thought he was the most attractive in the team).  
> A lot of research went into this story. I read the comics and it’s revealed that George Harkness is one of the more complex villains – while he acts like a douchebag so many times, when you discover what kind of an environment he grew up in it comes as no surprise he behaves that way.  
> So I hope that you enjoy my story.  
> Disclaimer: None of the characters belong to me, but to DC and Warner Bros.

“Digger! What the heck was that?” yelled Deadshot.

“You shoulda have ducked, mate!” shouted Digger above the howling wind, “Y’know how high charged these explosive boomerangs are!”

“You almost killed us!” growled Deadshot, tightly gripping his air-rifle, “What the heck were you thinking? It almost blew my head off!”

The blizzard was getting worse, the snow falling in a flurry onto their faces felt like little icicles, biting into their skin. Killer Croc moaned in pain, huddling his face under his hoodie, and even Harley Quinn who was usually immune to the cold in almost any outfit she wore, was visibly trembling. Being trapped on the barren heights of the Himalayan Mountains was bad enough, but the winter that came early had jeopardised the mission. The stakes were already high enough when they realised that the target fortress they had to break into to retrieve the enemy’s weapon blueprints was heavily guarded, and the only way in was by blowing up a section of the wall. 

Captain Boomerang had to throw an explosive boomerang that had a charge strong enough to blast through the stone wall, yet he chose to throw a more powerful one than needed, just for good measure. Needless to say, his decision almost cost a few team members' lives. 

“Y’don’t know what could’ve been behind those walls!” replied Digger, striding towards Deadshot and his demeanor growing more menacing with each step, “They could’ve been lined with steel, like in Central City Bank.”

“Does this look like a bank to you?!” Deadshot walked up to him, almost in Digger’s face, “We are in the middle of nowhere in the Kashmir province and we have the noise of the blizzard covering us up! Even if a small blast wouldn’t have gotten us through, you could have thrown a few of them to bring down the wall, because the guards can’t hear them! Now half of Kashmir has heard that we are trying to break in!”  
Before Captain Boomerang could snap back, Rick Flag trudged over to them and shouted, “I got news from Waller. She said that the mission has been aborted, and we should head back to the starting point where the aircraft will be waiting for us. “

Just as he said it the alarm, loud and shrill, rang throughout the fortress. 

“Bail!” screeched Harley, running as fast as her cold bare legs could carry her through the thick snow. 

Task Force X ran for their lives down that mountain, tripping and falling down the steep slope, getting back up again and senselessly galloping towards their starting point. They heard the angry shouts of the guards behind them, and the sound of gunshots tearing through the icy air. Deadshot swiftly turned around and fired a couple of shots that brought the two closest guards down and then turned back to continue running. Captain Boomerang didn’t even look back when he flung the boomerang into the air behind him, but a pained cry informed him that he managed to take down a guard. 

Sure enough, the waiting aircraft appeared into view, and it was only a matter of minutes for everyone to hurriedly board the plane that took off surprisingly fast. 

“What happened? Is it Captain Kangaroo’s fault the mission got pulled?” asked Deadshot, dropping himself into his seat. 

“Oi! Watch your tone mate, before I knock your block off!” 

“The plans were transferred to another location by the time we got there,” said Flag, wiping the snow mixed with sweat from his brow, “I just got the intel when Boomerang blew up the wall.”

“Hear that mate?” said Digger smugly, “You were all too happy to pin the blame on me, yeah? We could’ve gone and finished this mission.”

“If we went ahead with it we’d be dead.” Said Deadshot,”We should consider ourselves lucky the mission got pulled.”

“We wouldn’t have even had the chance to get in if it weren’t for my boomerangs.”

“Oh let it go Boomer!” interjected Harley, getting fed up herself, “We almost died out there, and you could’ve used ya head for a second before pulling out the A-bomb of your boomerangs!”

“Don’t mess in men’s business girlie, now shut yer mouth.”

“Ooh, Crocodile Dundee is gettin’ feisty!” exclaimed Harley, the sarcasm in her voice getting ugly, “Whatsa matta’ honey, having trouble letting go during your special ‘me’ time?”

Before Digger could retort with a threat, Flag the peacemaker broke them up with the words, “I swear I will blow one of you up if there is a fight on this plane! Now sit down and shut up!”

Flag truly knew how to keep the peace.

Settled in their seats, Harley turned to Deadshot and whispered purposely loud enough for Digger to hear, “What the heck is Boomerbutt’s problem? He’s not usually this stupid.”

“I don’t know what goes on in that head of his,” said Deadshot, shooting Digger a dirty look,”but this week has been full of his screw ups and I no idea why.”

Digger turned his head away to ignore them and he noticed Katana was looking intently at him, sitting right across him. The stoic woman had not said one word during the entire mission, braving the cold and her expression remaining unreadable.

“Something caught your eye, love?” asked Digger, raising a flirtatious eyebrow.

Katana’s stoic gaze remained unwavering, and before he could add another lascivious comment, Harley’s voice distracted him.

“He’s just being a bastard as usual, Floyd. Ignore him.”

Bastard. A week ago Digger would have found that insult funny and embraced it with a self-depreciating joke. This week it rubbed him the wrong way and he was ready to punch the lights out of any person who’d mention that word to him. 

His teammates didn’t even realise the irony in calling him a bastard. Neither did he, until he went back to Australia the week before for a family issue. 

Family. What kind of family did he actually have left? Sharing the same surname did not make someone family, that he knew, and it was question whether even having the same blood was enough. 

George Harkness was born into poverty and his arrival was not welcome. Betty and Ian Harkness already had a son, Tom, a good several years his senior, which made it clear that they hadn’t planned on having another one. While most unplanned additional children were accepted joyfully into their families, Ian Harkness made it clear from early on that raising George was not his responsibility. 

“He is your son,” he would say, handing George as a baby back to Betty, who gave her husband a pleading gaze, “He is your mistake and therefore you take care of it. It’s bad enough he’s muddying up my family’s good name and living under my roof. I have you to thank for that.”

Betty would never say anything about such comments. She felt guilty enough for betraying her husband while he was away in the army, and as a young wife she had allowed her silly sentimentality get the best of her. It was because of this betrayal her own parents did not speak to her in the following few years, disappointed in their daughter’s choices and fearing their reputation if the shithole town of Kurrumburra would get wind of what Betty Harkness had done. 

Kurrumburra. Pile of maggots. Perfect name for this backwater place. 

It was when George was three years old that Betty’s parents had decided to forgive their only child and visit their grandson. 

He was an energetic child, curious to see the elderly visitors who entered his home, as they rarely had any people come over, except for the occasional Ian’s mates. 

“Say hello to your grandad and nana, Georgie,” said Betty softly. 

George, who never seemed to do what you’d tell him, walked up to his grandmother as she seemed more friendly out of the two strangers and stared up into her face. His Nana, bless her, was always wise enough to say the right words in any situation. 

“Oh Betty,” she cooed softly, “He looks just like you when you were little! Look at those blue eyes, just like our Betty’s.”

Betty finally smiled like she hadn’t in a long time, and even felt a little pride grow for her son, something she never expected she would feel. 

“And that hair, why his hair is just like yours!” said Nana, turning to her husband. Grandad softened a little and even smiled at the boy, who returned with a cheeky grin of his own. 

Nana picked George up and set him on her lap. He squirmed a bit, but when he heard her laugh, he immediately responded with a high-pitched squeal of his own. 

“Forget about being a Harkness,” said Nana, stroking his hair, “Georgie is his mum’s child, he is a member of our side of the family. He is our heir, while Tom is Ian’s. And Georgie, you have no idea about the heritage you inherited from us.”

 

Survivors. Betty’s family descended from survivors. Grandad survived fighting as a soldier in the Second World War, while Tom Harkness’ father didn’t. Nana, tracing her heritage to Yugoslavia, descended from a family line that survived the Balkan Wars, the First World War and the Second World War, finally having to leave and seek opportunities on the other side of the world when Nana’s father, a royalist supporter, realised that his ideology did not fit in with the new system. 

George loved them, especially his Nana. The name Nana eventually shortened itself into Nan, and he was the only person other than his mum that he was openly affectionate to. Nan loved to spoil him like every child should be spoiled when no one else didn’t, and actually got him the things he liked. 

His favourite present was the first one he got from her, which was a stuffed pink unicorn. Being three years old at the time, he looked at it in wonder. It was the most soft, gentle and colourful thing he had ever seen, given that he was growing up in a bleak home that had only hard or rough surfaces and an air of despair. The only name he could think of at the time as such a young child with limited vocabulary was to call it “Pinky!” 

Ian was furious when he saw George’s new toy and threatened to have it confiscated. 

“It’s bad enough I have him around, but to have him embarrass my family with this bloody thing!”

However, he changed his mind after Nan exchanged a few harsh words with him, and George got to keep his companion that would become his life’s amulet. 

Grandad also grew fond of him, sometimes playfully wrestling the boy, exclaiming, “Why look at that littl’ digger, he’s a soldier like his grandad!”

Grandad didn’t live past George’s sixth birthday so that joyful chapter was short-lived. Nan continued to visit them, until she too became too weak to travel. Betty and George would occasionally embark the train and visit her in her flat in the outskirts of Melbourne, when Ian allowed it. 

George’s big brother, Tom, received their father’s full attention. Whatever he accomplished was of great pride to Ian and Betty, and their confidence encouraged him to do better in school. George, on the other hand, could never remember the time when his father showed anything besides mockery in anything he achieved, and beatings that fell all too easily when he stepped out of line.

For George, living with his father was like walking on eggshells. He was desperate to prove himself, and when he showed his father his best work that he had done in school, he was met with derision. 

“What’s this then?” asked Ian, looking down at the object handed to him one afternoon in the kitchen.

“It’s a boomerang,“ said George, proud that he had learnt a new word, “you throw it an’ it comes back to you. I made the best one in class.”

“Is this the thing that Abos use?” asked Ian, his attitude growing pricklier by the minute, “Hey Betty, come see this! Your son’s gonna live among them bushpeople!”

Tom, who sitting in the chair nearby, burst into derisive laughter. 

“You can be right proud of how you’re raisin’ him Betty,” continued Ian, as Betty looked angry and embarrassed at the same time, “lil’ Georgie will be sleeping in the bushes by the time he’s Tom’s age.”

George grabbed the boomerang from his father’s hand and ran outside, his face red and throat feeling thick with shame. He looked back and saw no one followed him. He looked down at the boomerang and hurled it away with all the anger and misery that he felt. The boomerang flew into the air with a grace that George never knew it could do, swooped with a generous loop and zoomed back at him. Terrified, he closed his eyes and put his hand out. Like a child returning to its mother, the boomerang landed securely into his outstretched palm. The adrenaline rush he felt was amazing. 

He spent the rest of the day throwing it around, and when he let his friends play with it, they could only throw it a few meters away before it fell limply to the ground without returning. George learnt much later in his life that the most important thing about throwing a boomerang was to throw it with passion, a lot of which he had. 

He practised using it every day, sometimes for hours, and it proved to be very useful – he could hit birds in flight, fruit that he wanted from the tops of trees, and even used it once on his brother Tom when he ridiculed George for still sleeping with Pinky. Tom had a sore head for the rest of the week and never knew what hit him. 

George had two best friends, both of them children’s toys, while relations with his two male family members became so strained it felt that it would painfully break at any moment. 

Ian Harkness had permitted the youngest member of his family once to accompany him and Tom to the store in town, which he normally never allowed. Excited that his dad seemed to be opening up to him more, 12 year old George at the time eagerly trailed behind his father and older brother into the shop and gazed around at the items on sale. 

Could he take one of the items there? The store owners wouldn’t mind, after all they were so well stocked and his family barely had anything. It was an especially bad drought that year, the prices of fresh fruit soaring and even meat imported from New Zealand was cheaper. George especially felt it when the portion sizes his mum served for dinner were almost half the size than before. But before he could finally make the decision on whether to reach for the sweets or not, the store owner interrupted his dilemma by calling out to him. 

“Is that George?” asked the chubby female owner, whom his father was acquainted with, “You never bring your other boy around here Ian. Let me see ‘im!”

“Come over here Georgie,” ordered his father, and George shuffled over to the cashier’s desk where the owner stood. 

“Look at ‘im!” she gushed, “Why, he looks just like his dear ol’ mum! Looks like Betty’s blood won the battle with his one, eh Ian? The first time I get to see anyone in the Harkness family to have curly ‘air and them eyes!”

The lady owner’s playful comments that were meant to be compliments did not sit well with Ian. The visit to the town was cut abruptly short and they went back home. At the first minor slip-up George made (dropping a slippery plate his mother handed to him while washing up) his father gave him such a thrashing he remembered for the rest of his life. His mother to literally pull Ian away, shouting, “What’s the matta with you Ian? Georgie’s had enough, we can afford another plate!”

Ian stopped hitting him and violently shrugged his wife’s hands off his shoulder. He turned around to her and snarled, “Don’t ever stop me from bringing order under my roof again, ya bloody bike!”

George didn’t even comprehend the full implications of the word “bike”, as he was all too eager to scarper away from the aggressive patriarch and get back into his room to be comforted by Pinky. But this scene stayed forever etched in his memory as the beginning of Ian’s abuse towards his mother. Betty’s sins had caught up with her and in the upcoming years life with Ian steadily grew more unbearable. 

By the time she reached forty her face looked wearied and depicted a lifetime of unhappiness. Any spark that she used to have in her playful blue eyes had faded, leaving only defeat and fear. 

George on the other hand, grew more restless and angry, fully embracing his rebellious nature and reaping joy in vexing his father and brother, despite the punishment that would ensue. At age fourteen, he had long given up of putting any effort in his schooling and Ian started to kick him out of the house for days at a time. George didn’t mind it that much – he felt safe with his boomerangs by his side (he had created a few new ones over time, ones that were sharp and deadly) and he enjoyed gazing up at the starry night sky of the outback while laying down on the dark red earth of the land. At such a young age he was fully capable of caring for himself, developing lightning fast reflexes to hurl a boomerang and slice the head off a copperhead that might be slithering up to him. Australia offered a beautiful, dry and deadly wilderness that he adapted to and loved. He knew that he was truly free when he could fight back against the things that could hurt him without any repercussions. 

The final time he tried to appease Ian was when he was eighteen. It was when the two of them were alone in the kitchen one evening and George was ready to go out. 

“Off to see yer mates, eh Georgie?” asked Ian, not bothering to look up from the newspaper he was reading. 

George grew to hate being referred to as “Georgie”. Only his mum and Nan could call him that. 

“Nah. I’m off to see Susie.” Said George casually, waiting to see his father’s response. 

“I thought you were dating that other sheila, wots’ ‘er name….Juney.”

“Yeah well,” said George, spicing it up with some casual swagger, “grew tired of her, realised she ain’t worth my time. Susie’s better.”

This was it. The words any father would have been proud to hear – to know that his son was a stud who could have any girl he wanted. If this didn’t impress him, nothing else would. 

There was an uncomfortably long pause before Ian finally spoke. 

“You simply can’t settle down with one good thing, can ya?” said Ian, “You get bored easily, moving from one to another, trying out new things just for the sake of it. When women do it we call it whoring, Georgie, and it goes both ways.”

The words doused George like a bucket of ice. 

Ian looked at him, unimpressed, and his lips turned into a sneer, “I guess I shoulda’ have expected that, after all the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. It’s in yer blood.”

Though he had no proof at the time George knew that Ian wasn’t talking about himself as the tree, was not referring to his bloodline. Without a word, George walked out of the kitchen and opened the front door to the house. Before he could leave, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror hanging on the wall. He didn’t look like anything now, not like his father or his brother. He barely even looked anything like his mother now. He was considerably taller and stronger than any Harkness ever was, his hair curled into dark blond with a touch of red unlike his mother’s light brown, had the propensity to grow sideburns and a strong jawline. The only testament that remained from his mother were those eyes. With a surge of frustration he went out and slammed the door behind him. 

A few days later he attempted to rob the local pawnshop with his friend. It failed, mostly because the pawnbroker knew him (the benefits of growing up in small place) and partially because his friend bailed on him. He managed to escape the locals who tried to grab him equipped with only a boomerang and fled home. The word spread throughout Kurrumburra like wildfire that Ian Harkness’ son was a delinquent and a yobbo who needed to be put on a leash. 

The shame, anger and spite that George felt about this incident was punched out of him by Ian, only to be replaced with fear and hatred for the man he called father his entire life. The punches he received were far worse than the beatings he had as a twelve year old for breaking the plate at the wrong time, with each punch came a word: “Mess” *punch* “with” *punch* “my family’s” *punch* “reputation?! Ya bloody drongo!”  
Nothing could ever match Ian Harkness’ beatings that day, not even the worst fights with Flash or any other superhero. Too cowed to fight back, the fists showered on him until he couldn’t see from the pain, the bruises and the blood. 

“Ian, stop!” screamed Betty, dragging her husband off her child for the first time since he last threatened her years ago, “You’ll kill him! He’s your son, he’s our –“

At her words Ian lashed out and backhanded her with such force that Betty fell dazed to the ground. Even Tom stopped smiling as he watched the drama from the background. 

At the sight of his mother hitting the ground George was engulfed by an absolute fury he never felt before. The bruises didn’t matter, the blood running down his face and blurring his vision didn’t matter, the pain faded into the back of his mind as he got up with such speed and knocked his father out with one punch to the jaw. 

“Georgie! What have you done?” wailed his mother, as she staggered back up, dress soiled in dust from the ground. 

He looked at her, forcing himself to attempt a smile, “You alright mum?”

Her terrified blue eyes tore his soul. “Georgie, you have to leave. Now!”

“I ain’t leaving you like this.”

“I’ll be fine, but Ian’s gonna kill you! The police will be after you…. Lay low, we will meet up tomorrow at Kurrumburra train station at five.”

“But mum,” said Tom, suddenly intervening after spending the entire time of standing in the background as a spectator, "Ya can’t do that, dad’s gonna – “

She held her hand up. “Not a word of this to your father. I’m warning you, if you say something that will endanger your baby brother’s life I won’t have anything to do with you ever again.”

Never before had she spoken to her older son so sternly. After all these years, there was a backbone that survived in her worn-down body that everyone believed was long gone. George never felt such pride and gratitude for her, and his heart ached with love. Without another word, he ran off into the wilderness, where it welcomed him with beauty and savagery as it always did. He only sneaked back into the house that night to take the only two belongings he needed from his room – the boomerangs and Pinky.

His mum was true to her word. They met in front of the train station where she held a small package in her hands. 

“Here’s some money for you, it’s all I’ve saved.” She said, as she thrust the packet into his hands.

“Cheers mum, but where did you get that from? Is it dad’s?”

“You could say that I have saved any money that I have received over the years,” she said cryptically. Then she gazed longingly into his eyes, her own ones starting to well up. Her pupils darted, studying his face, as if trying to preserve the image of him one last time, “Take care, Georgie. Don’t come back here. There’s no life for you back home.”

“Nah mum,” said George, softening his voice and gently grasping her hand, one of the rarest heartfelt gestures anyone had ever seen him make, “Don’ say that. I’ll be back for ya, tah take ya with me when I earn my place in this world. You’ll see.”

Betty smiled sadly and said, “I don’t know, love. You just go an’ take care of yourself, I’ll handle Ian.”

Before he could think of anything else to say, she added, “Look darling, I have a good friend in America who may give you a job. The address is in the packet. If you chose to go there, you have my blessing. I know you will fight through anything that tries to hold you back. You got your mum’s blood to thank for that.”

He hugged her, holding on to her with such force he wished that time stood still for a century. But eventually he did let go, and as the went off into the distance on the train, leaning out of the window he saw her lone figure on the platform, waving him a goodbye. That was the last he ever saw of her. 

He joined the army, and soon afterwards got kicked out for disobeying orders. He proved to be a good fighter and he earned the nickname ”Digger” that he would proudly use for the rest of his life. He took his mother’s advice and left for America, where he went to the address that she gave him. Turned out that it was a toy company that was run by her American friend. Digger he worked as a representative of their latest toy, which was ironically a boomerang. The fad did not take off, the earnings were meagre, and so he quit. He did a few poorly paid odd jobs before he finally gave up and resorted to a life of crime, which was more profitable. He gained some friends and also enemies, especially the Flash who was always there to bring him back to prison. Now he was serving his time by risking his life in the Suicide Squad, just like how the original Australian convicts served their sentences in dangerous mines that could cave in at any moment and kill them all. 

And it was only a week ago from the mission he was currently on that Digger was told his mother had died. Straight from the Waller-horse’s mouth, who had to decency to tell it to him in private. She even allowed him one day, 24 hours, to attend the funeral and provided him with a plane ticket, whilst warning him that his life was in her hands. He wasn’t even in the mood to plan an escape. 

He kept a low profile when he arrived to Kurrumburra by train. Stepping down onto the platform he observed his surroundings and realised that the town didn’t change much, that it was still an isolated little place in the middle of nowhere, but the building facades were refreshed with a paint job, and the asphalt on the main street was smooth and new. The town’s graveyard was only a 15 minute walk from the station, so it didn’t take him to long to arrive there. No one recognised him on the street, though a couple of passers-by did give him a quick double glance, as if they found him vaguely familiar but couldn’t remember who he was. After all, it had been over a decade since he left.

As he approached the gates of the graveyard he felt a growing sense of dread with every step he took. He could see the mourners and the coffin only a few meters away as he walked past the tombstones, and no one appeared to notice him. It was only when he approached the gathering had they turned around and suddenly spoke in little whispers, questioning his appearance. They all moved aside to make way for the frighteningly able-bodied stranger and did not dare to even issue a greeting. Digger didn’t say a word to any of them as he walked over to the head of the coffin, where the confused priest stood next to his brother and father. His brother and father, Tom and Ian Harkness. 

At the sight of his prodigal son Ian’s jaw clenched and he was about to step out for a fight, when Tom held him back by the arm and said quietly, “Not now dad, for mum’s sake.”

The only decent thing Tom ever did for Digger. 

“Georgie?” came a soft voice from behind him. Turning around, Digger saw it was dear old Nan, still alive but so frail. 

“Nan!” he exclaimed, scooping the second favourite person in his life into a firm hug, “Missed ya! How you’ve been dearie?”

She placed a hand on his sideburn-covered cheek and said sadly, “Not so good darling. My little Betty has gone before me, my poor baby had been so ill...”

Betty had died of cancer. A few years after Digger had left on that same day she started to feel occasional pains in her lower abdomen that she had ignored in the following years. It was only when the pains became unbearable had she gone to the doctor, who had arranged for an immediate operation but even then it was too late. The tumour had completely eaten away at the womb where Digger spent his first nine months of existence. Now nothing of her left. 

The ceremony passed uneventfully and quietly. As he coffin was laid to rest, everyone had dropped a flower. Having no flowers of his own, Digger reached into his pocket and pulled out the very boomerang he had made as a child. He dropped it onto the coffin, for it to be buried with the person who raised him during childhood. 

“I heard you’d gone pro Georgie,” interrupted Ian’s voice from his thoughts, “Yer mother’d be right proud.”

Digger whirled around and grabbed Ian by the lapels of his coat and snarled, “I ain’t a kid you can push around, dad.”

“I ain’t ya dad, ya right bastard!” snapped Ian, freeing himself harshly from Digger’s hold, “I was neva’ your dad! Your mother had an affair with some Yank a year before you was born and had you!”

The first thing that Digger felt in that fleeting moment was relief. Relief that he didn’t share the same blood with this man, which was soon taken over by anger for his step-father’s behaviour at his mother’s funeral. With all the self-control he could muster, Digger stopped himself from lashing out and turned around to leave. For once, he could be the better man, taking comfort in that he had nothing in common with the Harkness men. 

“You have no idea how much I hated you and ‘specially her,” shouted Ian’s obnoxious voice behind him, “Your mother’s gone ta hell for what she did, that lousy cheat!”

Those words were the trigger. George Harkness’ vision became clouded with red, and in that moment swiped out a boomerang from the depths of his coat and flung it at his step-father’s throat. He would have sliced it right open, had he not caught a glimpse of Nan’s frightened face as he threw the boomerang. That considerably softened his throw, having the blunt side of the boomerang jab his father in the throat, cutting off his voice and making him choke and sputter. Ian Harkness will have trouble speaking for the remainder of his life. 

“Take care Nan.” said Digger to the trembling old woman. Without another word, he pulled the coat closer to his body and left. Away from the graveyard, away from the stinking little town he hated, away from his beloved Australia and her vast plains and open night skies and the sun-kissed earth. 

That was a week ago and the memory still plagued him. 

“Whatcha thinkin’ about back there?” asked Harley, now in a more curious and softer tone, “You ain’t usually this quiet.”

Digger flashed her a smile and said cheekily, “Just thinkin’ about you putting your hands down me pants, love.”

Harley, sharp as ever, wasn’t fazed by this. “No,” she said, now sounding a bit concerned, “Somethin’s not right.”

Only half an hour ago she was argumentative and ready to fight him tooth and nail about his behaviour during the mission, and now she was being the caring psychologist. She truly was one of the crazies.  
None of them even knew that he was absent those 24 hours last week, as they were told he was in his cell. Digger’s behaviour was probably really confusing them right now. Now that he found amusing. 

No one asked him any more questions, or even spoke a word to him, though the curiosity hung in the air. The following 10 hours of flight went by with uneventful light chatter and sleep.

They had finally arrived at the US air base in the early hours of the morning, where they were transferred to Belle Reve. What everyone wanted was sleep, and each member was taken to their living quarters without incidents. 

Digger finally had his own cell and was provided with some items of his own. He laid onto his bed that was bit too small for him, cradled Pinky under the crook of his elbow in one arm, while with the other he cracked open a can of beer. He gazed up at the security camera in the ceiling, casually sipping away his drink. Eventually that one beer accumulated to eight, along with a half-drunk bottle of vodka. 

Digger had gotten up, shed his jacket and shirt, exposing his bare chest to the world and shouted at the top of his lungs. 

He’s acting all crazy again, is what the guards would say outside his cell door, while those who worked in security room would snicker at the sight of him on the camera footage. 

“Look at that Australian nutcase!” laughed one of the guards in the security room, “Did you see that tattoo he has on his chest? Check it out!” He pressed the zooming function on the camera’s computer. The whole room burst into derisive laughter, which if Digger had heard, would sound all too familiar. 

“Damn! Can he get any more bogan than that?” hooted the guard. 

Digger had exposed his chest for the world to see the inking that he unashamedly bore for years, ever since he had left Australia the first time to seek his opportunity in the States. 

Permanently tattooed on the skin above his heart, was the word “MUM”. 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: Done! This took me three evenings to write (juggling a job and writing is proving to be more challenging than I thought) and I must say it was worth it. A lot of the stuff I’ve written here actually takes place in the comics, especially his abusive racist father who mocked his step-son when he showed him the boomerang he made in school and the nasty older brother. Digger only loved his mother, who stood by him and tried to prevent Ian taking his rage out on the boy. If you can read the 2010 Flash comic Issue 7, it serves as a really eye-opening episode.  
> The scene at the funeral really takes place in the Flash comic. Digger’s step-father tells him the truth in a burst of anger, and Digger turns to leave. However when Ian rages that he hated Digger’s mother and called her a cheater who was going to burn in hell, Digger completely flips out and slices his father’s head off with a boomerang. He would occasionally feel remorse for doing that but then would comfort himself that the old man never meant anything him. I changed it that Digger damages his throat so that his father lives with the inability to spew foul words again.  
> As for the grandma, I drew inspiration from my own mum, who gave her baby grandson (my nephew) pink pyjamas despite it not being typical “boy stuff”. I can just imagine a sentimental Balkan-type grandmother giving Digger the pink unicorn as a present, and passing on the hot-headed genes to him. In fact there is a very close family member of mine who had a stuffed toy dog since she was a baby and still keeps it in her bedroom, and she is a very confident and successful woman who enjoys the rough sports. So Digger also reminds me of her a bit.  
> Also after WWII, a number of people from the Balkans left to seek life elsewhere, and funnily enough a lot of people from Yugoslavia settled in Australia, especially in rural areas.  
> Please leave a review and tell me what you think. I tried not to be overly sappy and sentimental, although the movie version of Boomerang is more sensitive than the one in the comics (have you seen how Digger tears up when Diablo tells him about his kids?). I was even contemplating continuing this and making a couple more chapters on other members of the Squad, but we’ll see.


End file.
